


Smoke

by papercloudx



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 20:20:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7068589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papercloudx/pseuds/papercloudx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yes, a bit of flirting with the handsome stranger would have been fine. Sharing his bed when Rafe had told you he would be home late that evening, and again when he was away on a business trip, and again when Rafe had to attend some important meeting…</p><p> </p><p>That was another matter altogether.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: abuse, swearing, cheating  
> Spoilers: none!
> 
> In which everyone, including the reader, is problematic and I try to get over my being Rafe Adler trash. Originally posted on my Tumblr.

“Can’t you stay for a while longer?” Sam asked, unlit cigarette already in his mouth. 

“Sam, don’t start this again, please? You know Rafe will be home any minute… and you know making Rafe angry is the last thing I want to do.”

You were sitting at the edge of a motel bed; the room smelled of dust, cold cigarette smoke and… Sam and you.

You had first met Sam at a fancy dinner party you attended with Rafe a few weeks ago. Rafe was busy discussing potential business deals with other rich people, a conversation you were not particularly (read: not at all) interested in. As much as you enjoyed the lifestyle granted to you through Rafe’s riches, you preferred to let Rafe handle the actual management of said business.

As you scanned the room for something interesting to engage in, your eyes met those of a tall stranger. You had to admit to yourself that you were immediately attracted to the rough edges of his face, his prominent nose, and the cheerful spark you could detect in his eyes as he made his way to you. _A bit of flirting won’t hurt, eh?_

Even though Rafe was easily the most jealous man you have met in your life, a bit of flirting would probably have been okay, even if your fiancé had been able to pay you enough attention instead of discussing money matters with old men. You would have had to sit through one of his tantrums, but that was nothing new, and you almost— _almost_ —managed to block all thoughts out of your mind when Rafe screamed at you. 

Yes, a bit of flirting with the handsome stranger would have been fine. Sharing his bed when Rafe had told you he would be home late that evening, and again when he was away on a business trip, and again when Rafe had to attend some important meeting… 

That was another matter altogether.

To be fair to yourself, there was a charm about Samuel Drake that you believed few who were interested in men would be able to resist. His way of making you laugh and feel comfortable in your own skin, that sometimes-almost-arrogant grin, his never-ending history lessons that were actually interesting, even the way he held a cigarette between his fingers (and you didn’t even _like_ smokers)—it was all so effortless. The fact that he was probably the best and most attentive lover you had didn’t help in any way to keep you from his bed… you craved more as soon as you left his cheap motel room.

But there was a reason why you couldn’t easily leave Rafe. One of them was that you actually had feelings for him, though you could not make out whether those feelings could be called “love”… the other one, probably the more important one, was that you weren’t so sure if Rafe would let you leave with all your body parts intact.

“I can protect you from that psycho, you know,” Sam’s voice and the smell of cigarette smoke brought you back to the here and now. “I know you’re only staying with him because you’re afraid.”

“Not only”, you said with a sigh. “Look Sam, as much as I enjoy what we have—“

He wriggled his eyebrows at that. “I would have been surprised if you didn’t!”

“—cocky bastard. Even if being with you would be easier, I feel as if I… I… owe Rafe.”

Sam suddenly was very quiet—quite out of character for him, who usually had a witty reply on his lips even before you knew what you were going to say—and propped himself up on one elbow.

“If he makes you feel as if you owe him, you should leave as soon as possible.”

“I’ve been with him for too long to just throw away what we have!”

“And how exactly is just hopping into bed with a stranger _not_ throwing away what you have with Rafe?”

Well, he did have a point.

Angry at your own indecisiveness and problems with sorting out your feelings for Rafe, you put on the rest of your clothes and got up. “Sam, I’m not… I’m not ready to discuss this yet. Give me some time, okay? I’ll call you, I promise.” You looked at your watch. “Fuck, it’s too late. I have to hurry. Catch you soon.”

Without another look at Sam, you stormed out of the motel room, fumbling for your car keys in your jacket pocket in the process. You had to get back home quickly, before Rafe got home… or come up with a good excuse during the car trip.

\--- 

In a way, today was your lucky day. Just as you stopped in front of the gate to punch in the security code, your phone chimed: A text from Rafe.

_Sorry hon. Mr. Ass is refusing to accept my deal. Will take longer than expected. Don’t wait for me with dinner. See you tonight._

That left you with more time to come up with a story of what you had been doing today—you battered your mind to think of any parts of your PhD dissertation you might have been working on that you hadn’t told Rafe about yet—and with putting on new clothes. One of the biggest problems of an affair with a chain smoker, especially if neither you nor your partner were smokers, was probably getting the smell out of your clothes. You sniffed at your jacket, not noticing any difference in smell from the robust cloth, and hung it on the wardrobe. The rest of your clothing, however… you wrinkled your nose. Well, you’d have to do laundry before making dinner.

\--- 

You sat on the sofa in the living room in front of a crackling fire, lost in second and third wave feminism and its potential influences on children’s publishing, when you heard the key turn in the front door lock. You could feel a lump building up in your throat. You weren’t good at having an affair, and after each of your visits in Sam’s bed, you were sure this would be the time Rafe would find out.

When your fiancé entered the room, his usually neatly slicked back hair out of place, possibly from ruffling it in frustration, and the bags under his eyes speaking lengths about his exhaustion, you felt a familiar wave of protectiveness wash over you. Another reason why you couldn’t just leave Rafe was because he desperately needed someone to look after him—he could so easily forget his own health, both physically and mentally, over his obsession with living up to his father’s name, even _surpassing_ his father’s name, proving that he was worth something in his own right, not just some rich heir.

“Rafe, my love,” you said, putting down your book. “Come here.” You patted the sofa next to you. 

Rafe accepted the invitation without a word; he just lay down next to you, head placed comfortably on a cushion your lap, and sighed deeply. 

“Long day?” you asked, not sure if Rafe wanted to talk about what happened today. Your fiancé was someone who had to be touched with silk gloves when he was exhausted—he didn’t always know how to control his frustration and anger without letting them out on you.

Today seemed to be one of the few times when he actually did want to talk, however. “Yeah”—another sigh—“I don’t get why that old man is so fucking stubborn. I offered him a great deal, you know! But he insisted that Ms. McQueen had offered him—“

You listened to his rant and made approving or disapproving noises whenever the situation seemed to ask for them. Gently stroking Rafe’s hair, you focused on his beautiful features—the high cheekbones, his complexion that was way too smooth for a man his age, those piercing eyes—

When he finished his story, Rafe sat up and cupped your face in his right hand. “Thank you for listening. I know this probably bores the hell out of you—“

“Rafe, I’m here for you. If it bothers you, I’ll listen, you know that!”

“Still, thank you. I don’t say it enough.”

Smiling, he leaned in for a gentle kiss. Moments like these were so rare with Rafe. You realised that you cherished the intimacy between you two, the _emotional_ intimacy, more than anything else. You did not want to give up on that… not for what would probably turn out to be nothing more than a silly idolization of someone you barely knew.

Rafe started kissing your neck, continued up to your ear, and inhaled the scent of your hair. You knew this well—Rafe had an obsession with knowing every little detail about you. He would spend an hour just looking at you, memorising the way your skin felt under his fingers after you had sex, or he would behave as if you were the best-smelling flower in the world. It was what had made him so charming to you when you were still getting to know him, this desire to know you inside out.

“You smell different. Have you started smoking?”

His accusing tone wiped the smile of your face immediately. _Shit. Shit. How could I forget to wash my hair. How could I_ forget _to_ wash my hair. 

Still feeling rushed even though you knew Rafe would come home later than expected, you had quickly put your clothes in the washing machine and washed yourself, but you had _actually forgotten to wash your hair_. Cold sweat started to form under your armpits. _Fuck fuck fuck what can I say what can I do fuck—_

Rafe grabbed your chin and held it tight, forced you to look at him. “Why does your hair smell like smoke?” His features, so angelic just a minute ago, now formed into a snarl, his eyebrows pulled down deeply. 

When you didn’t reply, staring into his eyes with fear blocking all your thoughts, he got up and walked to the window. You could see all muscles in his back tense as he grabbed onto the window sill as you had seen him do so often when he was trying to control the rage that built up inside him.

“Not you who’s smoking then. How long has this been going on?”

Again, you couldn’t reply.

“I asked, _how long_ has this been going on?” He turned around, grabbed a vase that stood next to the window, and threw it on the ground in front of you. You instinctively raised your arms in front of your face to block any shards, but they scattered on the floor. 

“Rafe, let me explain…“

He stared at you, strands of hair falling in his face, eyes still narrowed to slits in pure rage. “I’m _waiting_.”

You swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat wouldn’t disappear. You stared at your hands, unable to form a coherent thought. _What have I done?_ You had no explanation. No excuse. You had betrayed him, and you deserved all his anger.

“I—I met him at that dinner party we went to at the beginning of last month…” You looked up to see Rafe’s reaction, tears blurring your vision. 

All the tension seemed to leave Rafe’s body in that instant. He pushed his hair out of his face and exhaled, and to someone who didn’t know Rafe well, it would have looked as if he had just let go of all his anger with that one breath… but you knew him better than that. “So this hasn’t been a one-time thing then.”

Again, you had no words. No apologies. You could only answer with a weak headshake. 

He crossed the distance between you, the shards of the shattered vase crunching beneath his dress shoes. Squatting down in front of you, he again held your chin in his hand, forcing you to look at him. “I _never_ want to see you again. Do you understand?” 

And with that, he punched you in the face.

Your head was thrown to the left as Rafe’s fist connected with your face. Your cheek immediately started to burn like hell. Too shocked to react in any way, you just stared at Rafe, holding the spot where a bruise would surely from in no-time from the sheer force Rafe had put into the blow. 

Your partner of four years stared back with an emotion in his eyes that he usually reserved for… his enemies. Just like that, you had become his… his enemy.

“I asked you a question. Do. You. Understand?”

The shards cut into your feet as you got up, but the pain was nothing compared to the persistent burn in your face. Rafe had hit you. Rafe had _hit_ you. You didn’t care for anything else as you stormed upstairs into your shared bedroom and quickly tried to gather the most important things in a bag. You would not stay here a second longer than you had to. Even though you knew about his anger management issues, even though you were afraid of him, a part of you—a bigger part than you had thought before, you now realized—had always trusted that he wouldn’t actually hurt you… not physically. As the tears streamed down your face, you came to a decision:

You would never set foot into this house again, no matter how much you cared for Rafe.

\--- 

A quiet knock on his door woke Samuel from his slumber. He knew the pattern—one knock, pause, two knocks—and didn’t bother putting on a shirt before opening the door.

“Hey shorty. Back already? I’m surprised you didn’t—holy shit, what happened to your face?!”

She smiled at him, but the smile was broken, defeated. “Mind if I stay with you until I find something else?”


	2. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She leaned towards him, very slowly, and Rafe felt his heart speed up. This is it, he thought. This is what falling in love feels like. And he eagerly closed the distance between them, kissing her gently at first, then more heated. She threw her arms around him, and he held her face in both of his hands—it had been such a perfect, magical moment, he almost expected the birds to start singing Disney songs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended Smoke to be a stand-alone but got a few requests to keep writing it. This part goes into detail about how Rafe and the reader met, and gives you a glimpse of what I interpret Rafe’s emotions and thoughts to be like.
> 
> Warnings: abuse, mild self-harming, cheating, swearing  
> Spoilers: Nope!

Rafe still sat on the sofa long after she left and looked at the shattered remains of a vase on the floor. It had been an expensive vase, of that he was sure; it had belonged to his parents before he took over the company, and everything they bought had been expensive and _exquisite_. He had only kept it because he hadn’t known what else to put next to the window, and eventually, decorating the house became less and less important.

He chuckled to himself. _Yes, let’s think about the worth of the vase instead of losing the fiancée._ It was such a cliché, but the shards in front of him were a wonderful representation of what was left of the life he had fought so hard for.

_I should have known. I should have known she would betray me. Everyone did, so why wouldn’t she?_

He had long gotten over self-pity and instead, just accepted betrayal as an unavoidable aspect of his life. It was just there—food, money that belonged to his parents and not him, expectations and ideas of who he should be, betrayal. It all lined up neatly. And then there was him, Raphael Adler. Alone against the world.

He took one of the shards in his hand and squeezed, his mind going back to the day he had met her as he watched the blood run down his hand, leaving a warm trail of deep red. 

\---

24-year-old Rafe only caught a glimpse of a deep red dress that twirled past him, but it was enough to distract him from the conversation his father was having with two other old businessmen. “It’s a good opportunity for you, Raphael,” he had said, “You’ll take over the company one day, so you should get as much experience in diplomacy as you possibly can.” So he had tagged along, but to be honest, this was just like any other business trip he had undertaken with his father. Lots of old people, lots of rich old people who were so stuck up in their own world, who were so proud of something that had been handed to them on a silver plate in so many cases. 

On a whim, he decided to follow the mysterious dress that caught his attention. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, gentlemen. Father.”

The mysterious dress turned out to belong to a gorgeous woman he estimated to be slightly younger than him. Maybe 22? From the looks she exchanged with a man considerably older than her, Rafe suspected she accompanied her father as well. Her polite nods, laughs that were just a bit too high-pitched and loud to be natural, and her eyes wandering around the room whenever she could get away with it told him one thing: She was as interested in the conversation as he was. 

“Excuse me,” Rafe gestured to one of the waitresses to stop, “Could I have two glasses of champagne, please?” 

“Of course, sir.” With a smile, the waitress handed him two glasses from her tray, “Anything else I can get for you?” He shook his head and thanked her before making his way over to the stranger in the red dress.

“Gentlemen, would you mind if I steal your lovely companion for a minute?” Rafe asked with confidence in his voice—people on these parties usually knew his name, and more importantly, his _family_ name, as the media loved printing his face next to headlines such as _Raphael Adler: Will he be able to add to his family’s fortune?_ (it went without saying that his father paid them a nice sum to make sure they only wrote positively about him)—as he bowed down a bit awkwardly, still holding both glasses in his hand and careful not to spill any on his white suit.

As he had expected, his entrance elicited quiet laughs from the men in the round, and the man he assumed was her father nodded with a cheerful “Go ahead, Mr. Adler.”

Rafe offered the woman one of the two glasses, which she accepted with a beautiful smile (one of the things he noticed immediately, strangely enough, were her perfect white teeth), and the pair stepped away from the group and to one of the standing tables in the room.

“Raphael Adler, if I am not mistaken?”

Rafe gave her what he hoped was his most charming smile and answered, “Just Rafe, please. How may I call you?”

She seemed almost shy when she gave him her name—a name he would remember for the rest of his life.

“Thank you for saving me from that conversation, by the way. I had a hard time not falling asleep.”

“I thought so. I assume you have been dragged here as well, then?”

She laughed; a chiming laugh that sounded so sincere, in stark contrast to how she had behaved around the men earlier. “My father is determined to find me a rich boyfriend, and he says accompanying him to these parties is the best way to do just that. I try to see it as an easy way to travel around the world, but these business meetings… Well, at least the champagne’s nice.” She took a sip from her glass, smiling at him over the rim. 

And as he looked into those eyes, a warm feeling rising inside of him, he just knew this wasn’t the last time he would see her.

\---

Their first kiss was one of Rafe’s fondest memories. While strolling through the park around his family’s villa—it was the only date-worthy place where he was sure they wouldn’t be followed by paparazzi—and holding hands, they had talked about their childhoods. He tried to omit that his was a rather lonely one; getting into fights with other rich boys over whose father or mother was the better business(wo)men (because the 8-year-old boys understood so much about what happened in their parents’ business lives!), doing less well in school than he was expected to, the long speeches from his father about how he better get a hold of himself or he would never inherit the family fortune, _“I will make sure of that”_ ; most of all, he did not tell her how most of his friends had eventually left him for someone richer, more interesting, _better_ than Rafe.

She was happy to talk about her childhood, however, and Rafe was surprised to find out how… simple it had been. She had gone to one of the less expensive private schools in her hometown, and she and her friends talked about one day owning a horse ranch in Montana. Instead, as she grew older, she became more and more interested in literature, and, as her parents backed her life decisions and _“just wanted her to be happy”_ , she went on to do an undergraduate degree in contemporary literature. She was now in her last year, and she had set her eyes on a post-graduate publishing degree. 

“That’s not exactly a degree that will be followed up by a good job, is it?”

She laughed at that—at him? “That depends on what a _good_ job is for you. It will give me a job I’m happy with. But if you’re talking about money, then yes, you are right.” She smiled to herself and looked at the ground, pausing for a moment. “I suppose that’s why my father is so determined to find me a rich boyfriend.”

He gently tugged on her hand until she was facing him and looking at his face. “I have one on offer right now, you know. If you’re interested.”

She leaned towards him, very slowly, and Rafe felt his heart speed up. _This is it_ , he thought. _This is what falling in love feels like_. And he eagerly closed the distance between them, kissing her gently at first, then more heated. She threw her arms around him, and he held her face in both of his hands—it had been such a perfect, magical moment, he almost expected the birds to start singing Disney songs.

\---

“I cannot _believe_ you didn’t tell me about the fact that your so-called ‘school friend’ is male!” he screamed at her, furious for her telling him what he considered a blatant lie to his face.

“And I cannot believe you’re making such a fucking fuss about this, Raphael! It is possible for women and men to be just friends, you know?”

Oh, he knew. He knew well. He knew how just friends looked like, with his girlfriend lying naked in _his_ boarding school dorm bed with a boy he had considered his friend, a shocked expression on their faces as he came into his room just a bit earlier than they had expected. Oh, he knew.

“Don’t you dare speak to me in that sort of tone again, do you hear me?” He was still screaming, raising his hand in pure rage, and it took all his willpower to keep himself from punching her.

“And you, Raphael Adler—don’t you dare to ever raise your hand against me again, or I swear to God, I _will_ leave.” Her eyes, usually so full of warmth and love for him, were the cold eyes of a snake in that moment. She turned around and left the room, slamming the door behind her, leaving him to feel like a fool. 

She was not his ex-girlfriend. She wasn’t like that. She would not betray him.

\---

Rafe almost snorted as he watched his blood run down his hand, the shard that represented his life still clutched in his fingers. _Yeah, right. She’s not like that, is she?_

He let the shard fall to the floor and wiped his hand on his trousers, paying no attention to the way the cloth soaked it up or the small pool of blood that formed underneath him. He didn’t get up to bandage his hand either. It didn’t matter. It all didn’t matter.

He had let his guard down. He had allowed himself to hope that she would be different, that when she said yes it meant something, that her _I love you_ s weren’t just lies told to keep enjoying the lifestyle his money offered. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

And as he came to that decision, he wept without a sound. He wept for what could, _should_ have been, and he wept for the hopeful Rafe Adler that was willing to trust people that he would have to bury deep inside himself, making sure he never came out again. 

There was only himself. He would have to learn to accept that.


End file.
